Variations of Maybe
by cloy
Summary: collection of short dr/hg fanfics. please r/r. New story added; Poison. I like it the best so far. I might work on it more later. please r/r
1. Blood and passion

Maybe if he closed his stormy eyes, he would be able to remember. There were dark stains on the satin sheets, and bruises on the flesh of her leg, writhing around in a quaint mixture of pain and pleasure.  
  
A milky blur and a moan. It was hard to tell who was stammering, trying, climbing, falling. The silk of his husky voice grew deeper as it filled, almost bursting, with desire. He uttered a sharp cry as her fingernails dug into the stark white skin on his back. She raked a design, tattooing herself onto him forever.  
  
Maybe nobody would notice. The candles drew shorter dimmer, as his eyes reflected the cold dark void of the night sky. He was greedy, slick, forceful; lustful. He had her. Maybe she wanted it. Her breaths came quicker and quicker, and her lungs emitted a painful gasp. Maybe the hair on his forehead wouldn't be drenched in sweat, and maybe his hands wouldn't be shaking so hard.  
  
He ran his sturdy fingers over the contours of her face. Maybe her ragged breathing would calm him, lull him into sleep. Her painful squeaks were not loud, just heart-wrenching. He let the maybes drill into him, seep through him, like a powerful potion. And he gave into the maybes. Shards of glass spilled onto the dusty floor.  
  
Now the dark stains were nothing but a memory, and a breeze blew the leaves gently off the ground. And the cry of terror was disguising itself as love. It was such a transparent ploy. It couldn't be true. All they ever had was blood and passion, passion and blood.  
  
A/n: Thanks Sam, I needed the angst. 


	2. Snake

Snake, are you hungry for me? You slither around with nonchalance and your strut is like that of no other. Pride and legacy are your only companions. Compassion is beneath you.  
  
Your plush lips are smooth as velvet, and taste of wine. I bruise at your desire. So, my flesh is no longer stark and innocent. It is now curse and sinew.  
  
Snake, you are smooth, slick, arrogant, and evil. You are scaly and treacherous. You're sly and sturdy. I see you, Snake. I want you, Snake, I need this torturous game and I crave your prying fingers.  
  
Yet your touch is scorching,  
  
And your gaze pierces mine.  
  
And your words are poison.  
  
And your kisses are death. 


	3. Knives and potions

Knives and potions; potions and knives. It had been that way since before he could remember. It was like a mantra of sorts. Until one day. There came some flavor in his bland world. After hours, when he was done sneering at people that he knew were no better than him; when the last drops of ink splattered onto the parchment from his fine feather quill; nightly, when he rolled over panting, another girl in his bed. It was a different one every time. That's when he would think, and say his mantra.  
  
"Knives and potions make me strong. Knives and potions, potions and knives.  
  
Knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment; Her." That's when he'd think about Her.  
  
Potions numbed him, chilled him. Pain befriended him. Torment taunted him. Death plagued him. Knives comforted him. She confused him. He did not like this feeling, the feeling doubting your self-worth. One thing he could be sure of: she would harm him. He could use her; an easy game to win. He could use his knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment, until he had her. Then he would be left with nothing; not even his knives and potions, surely not his trusty potions and knives. 


	4. Tease

A silver flicker. Spark, there it is. A pass in the hallways, and a smirk at dinner. Passion raged in his eyes. Lust ruled his thoughts. Yet, he mimicked her. Sneered in the classrooms and raised a perfect eyebrow in manners less than innocent.  
  
Brush of hands in between classes. Strong as any potion. There was nothing to desire. The way he flaunted himself, his suave and confident stare; it made her want him. It created need.  
  
Nothing but a need. A burning hunger, deep inside. It felt empty and hollow. His hot breath would tickle the back of her neck. A distinct masculine aroma hung heavily, embedded in sweat. His soft, strong hands would play at the nape of her neck. Whispers were let go into the well of her ear, heavy with sin and corruption.  
  
Combustion fuel. A little peek through halfway narrowed eyes. Moving closer, a smirk and a pout. She would moan and writhe before he got five steps. And then, everything was still.  
Stop. 


	5. Monday Morning

Lights dimmed. Shadows played on the plaster of the walls. Flickering and melting together, entwined into one.  
  
Feeling  
  
Grabbing  
  
Tasting  
  
Moaning  
  
Deep breathes and dark pants. Each sigh heavy with lust and yearning. The flames turned deep orange-blue, crackling far into the night. Overturned sheets and blankets were strewn clumsily on the floor.  
  
Wanting  
  
Licking  
  
Smelling  
  
Burning  
  
An eruption, followed by a cry. Lack of oxygen and reason. Blood stained expensive silken sheets. Down pillows conformed to matted tangled hair. Bead of sweat poured over each tendril. Silver light played in his eyes.  
  
Inviting  
  
Teasing  
  
Asking  
  
Tiring  
  
Rays of golden light poured through magenta curtains. Dawn creepy up into the room, shedding light on the single figure, twisting amidst his rich mahogany bed, Alone. 


	6. Escape

I am darkness. I am illogicality. I am foolish. She is reason. She is psyche. She is desire. I can't breath around her. She ensnares me. I can't think of anything except her. She is always sulking into me.  
  
Everyday, I watch her. Every night, I dream of her. Every second, I want her. She is always just out of reach. And I am left alone among hundreds. I am fake and arrogant and vain. There is no one there when I turn around.  
  
I feel clumsy, blind, sinful; scornful. I am sinister. I am the dragon. Lately, my scales have lost their luster. Any my eyes no longer sparkle. I cannot feel my heart swell anymore. I cannot feel my heart at all. I am Malice, Revenge, and Pride.  
  
And I am jealousy. And she is innocence. I am vicious. She is merciful. I am broken, worn and tired. And she can escape. And I am trapped. 


	7. Poison

Hermione stood alone in front of the mirror in the cold, dark room. Running her fingers over the deep purple-blue bruises on the hollows of her hips, she sighed. She knew every intrusion by heart. Everywhere his prying fingers would scorch her skin. It was her own fault that the hem of her skirt was too high, and the dip in her blouse was too low. It was her fault that her hair was so thick; his hands got tangled in it sometimes.  
  
And she could pretend she didn't know about all of his other girls. The walls were not thick; she could hear them even now. She could deny that she imagined all those girls touching him,  
  
Grabbing  
  
Tasting  
  
Taking.  
  
She knew every curve and mark on his body.  
  
And suddenly he was on top of her, panting and groaning. He suffocated her, and his weight pressed down on her frail frame, muffling her cries. He seeped through her like poison, burning through her veins.  
  
"I starve for you," she uttered breathlessly to him.  
  
But this new diet's liquid.  
  
And dulling to the senses. And it's crude,  
  
but it will do. 


End file.
